One of my favorite poets….
Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr. considers himself the official spiritual advisor of his roommates, Gordot and Dwight—the first a goldfish, the other a Turkish Van cat. His works have been published in The Poetry Magazine, Moria Poetry Journal,Fogged Clarity, Everyday Poem, Loch Raven Review, The Buddhist Poetry Review, The Philippines Free Press, Troubadour 21, Full of Crow, Indigo Rising, Asia Writes, Triggerfish Critical Review, Troubadors 21, Gloom Cupboard, TAYO, Haggard & Halloo, and elsewhere. His first book, A Fistful of Moonbeams, was published by Kilmog Press in April 2010. His second book, Kleenex Theory, was published in 2015. He is busy anthologizing emptiness and boredom at the moment.
This is the way white will never be the same
To me—the way white walls, white steel bed,
Lilliums, heliotropes in ash-blue vases connive
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My poem History Sits in a Chair published a few years ago….
history sits on a chair
picks her teeth with a rabbit bone and drops a cup
ouilipolice wear riot gear to ensure random chance
every third erasure cubed then triangulated
but still the uncertainty principle warps the record
the delusions of mathematicians and platonists
so sure equations are reality behind the flickers and shadows
a harmony of glass globes static as stars painted on a ceiling
an arrow shot from a train at once hood ornament and memory
time asymmetrical and memory just another construct
but there is no imaginary time when stirring a pot of rabbit stew
she mentions the heat death of the universe
all the stars burn out one by one ashes ashes
we all fall down but then the big bounce
the broken teacup reassembles
on the table from which it…
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Sharing this again because I’m crying.
for Tina upon the death of her sister, Frida
When her twin died Tina lost her bearing. The sisters had never been apart. They slept together like friendly lovers. Cleaned each other’s face and ears, behind the neck. Frida never even had to speak, for Tina heard her thoughts. They played together in their dreams each night, running under the desert sun. Their hair the color of a fawn. Their bellies and feet, precious and pink. Their little hands in little white gloves.
Frida made up games for just the two of them. Tina was the athlete. The warrior. The beauty of the family. The sweetness. Indomitable. Frida, the artist. The invalid. The intrepid one. The creative. She worshipped fire. She feared no one. Together they were the Amazon princessas. Inseparable. Invisibly conjoined. So when Frida died, she became Tina’s phantom appendage. The agony of amputation without the blood. And…
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Source: Dead hands by Donna Snyder
From Gillian Prew
I was honoured to be one of the poets invited to contribute to this 50th issue of Erbacce Poetry Journal. We were asked to send a poem about something that we are passionate about – my poem is about a dying whale. At the moment I can’t find a link to purchase a copy but it contains so my wonderful and diverse poems that I would highly recommend it. My thanks to everyone at erbacce.